


You'd Have To

by sweetNsimple



Category: Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Dominant!Piers, Happy Ending, Infected!Piers, M/M, Newbie at Resident Evil Fiction, Semi-Fragile Chris, semi-angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:26:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetNsimple/pseuds/sweetNsimple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That felt right to him. And it had to feel right to Piers because the scars faded. It was even better than saying the words. Just in case, though, Chris did. He said them. </p>
<p>Piers grinned, almost boyish again, never boyish again. Could never be but Chris didn't care because he didn't need a boy at his side to begin with. "Love you too."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You'd Have To

Static. Tracing along the ridge of his shoulder blade before tickling down the line of his back, spreading and slowing over one proud round cheek of his ass. It groped and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

Chris gave up trying to sleep. He grumbled, “'M awake.” Turned his upper body to squint at his bed partner and current molester. 

The smile he witnessed was not the least bit sorry about depriving him of rest and the opposite of embarrassed for being caught in the act. “Yeah. I know.” 

The hand massaging his buttocks – muscle tissue red, shot through with bright, wide silver and oily black veins, disfigured – clenched a little tighter and glinted for a moment. The shock of bio-electricity raced up Chris's spine, sending off a thousand different messages of confused arousal. He let loose a long-suffering sigh and laid his head back down on the pillow.

The bed moved as his partner leaned over him. Bit the back of his neck and let his teeth dig in deep. He murmured, “ _Good_ soldier,” and Chris shuddered.

Legs shifted over his. His partner's hard cock pushed between the swells of his ass, rubbing and rutting and Chris let his eyes flutter shut and his legs fall open.

He felt his partner smile against his shoulder. “ _Very_ good soldier.”

He heard a cap pop open. His partner's right hand traveled up his body till it could tangle with his own. The cool, damp, static skin made him shiver and he clenched down on the fingers just as his partner speared into him with a single digit.

“Love how responsive you are,” was said in breathless awe. Two fingers. Three. Four. So slow, so fucking thorough, it rotted his mind just waiting.

He was getting too old for the suspense. The anticipation. One day, he was going to have a heart attack while his partner took his sweet time. 

Then Chris thought about that again. If he did, at least he was in a capable hand. He held the disfigured right appendage more tightly. His partner growled and the fingers withdrew. His weight settled more fully on top of Chris, holding him down, caging him in, letting him feel every line and plane and muscle of his lover's front against his back.

He opened his mouth, paused, said instead of what he was thinking, “Capt-” and was caught on a groan as his partner pushed all the way into him. 

His partner kissed just behind his ear, thumb gliding over the back of his hand, comforting, _I've got you, let go for me, trusttrustTRUST me_. “Yeah?”

He turned his head and opened his eyes, wanting to see the raw pleasure that would be on his partner's face. The pale, near nonexistent white scars on the right side of his face squirmed, pressing against the skin. The dual colors of his eyes, milk and hazel, milk and honey, terrifying when out of control, so beautiful too, milk and honey trailing across and under and in Chris's skin and bones, warm and smooth and sweet and claiming. Possessive and dark and just toeing the line of dangerous.

Chris whispered, “Love ya,” still a bit drowsy, heavier now, heat coiling in the pit of his belly.

A half-smirk twisted his partner's face. The white scars faded a bit, subdued. “You'd have to.” He kissed the corner of Chris's lips. Rolled his hips, long and deep. “Love you too.”

He shuddered. Happily suffered another languid thrust. “You'd have to.”

:::::::

Piers had a rank kink. It hadn't shown up till he'd actually been promoted but it was still nice to know. Chris made sure to use it against his partner at every available chance, even if he didn't technically have a rank anymore. Unless veteran counted, anyway. He kind of hoped it didn't. Made him feel too old to have a partner as young as Piers.

His partner came through the front door, swinging his jacket off and onto the back of his chair. His sleeves were down, Chris noted, both leather gloves on. The scars on his face were more defined than usual, more active, wriggling and thickening. The moonlight gleam of his right eye was lighthouse-bright and the honey depths of his left perilously shadowed.

He gulped his coffee while Piers made his own cup. 

Instead of starting out the conversation with, “Not a good day?”, he opted for a more well-received approach. One that let Piers take control, let him take his aggression and frustration out, let him dominate like the newer, nonhuman part of him wanted to do. It gave him release on multiple levels.

And Chris too. Chris didn't have to make any decisions when he gave in to what Piers needed and wanted. In his retirement, that was a big thing. It was the only thing. He hated deciding things anymore. That was why, more often than not, the decision was left to Piers.

He lifted himself up and onto the kitchen island counter, legs spread wide and denim hugging every muscle and curve of his thighs and bulge. Piers paused in his hunt for milk, nostrils flaring, watching Chris out of the corner of his eye.

Chris asked, in a loyal and submissive soldier voice, “What are your orders, Captain?”

Piers answered him by ripping off his jeans and fucking him on the spot. It hurt, only preparation being Piers butter-slicked cock. And it was rough, pounding, Chris could barely breathe. He held onto the sides of the tiled island anyway, legs hooked around Piers' waist, never looking away from Piers looking right at him.

_Don't look away_ , was what Chris saw written out in the savage lines and scars of Piers' face. _See what I am, don't turn away, see what I can do?_

He sought out familiar comfort, left hand reaching down, gripping Piers' right hand over his hip. He grimaced at the leather he encountered. He worked to take it off and Piers brought his hand to his mouth, using his teeth to pull it off. The glove landed somewhere on the floor and the hand warmly, burning with static, landed over his.

That felt right to him. And it had to feel right to Piers because the scars faded. 

It was even better than saying the words. Just in case, though, Chris did. Between grunts and groans, he said them.

Piers grinned, almost boyish again, never boyish again. Could never be but Chris didn't care because he didn't need a boy at his side to begin with. “Love you too.”

:::::::

Chris knew Piers didn't get the respect he deserved in the B.S.A.A.. Everyone was too busy to see the pros of his situation, waiting with their hands on their guns for him to lose control. For him to completely mutate. His degeneration appeared more advanced than any other virus but no one wanted to take the chance.

He was infected. He was dangerous. He could still discharge bio-electric energy from his arm and his eyes discomforted others. When he was stressed or angry, the scars came out and they moved and the people around him, as a result, also moved. Away. Away from him and what he had become instead of towards him for the person that he was, the honorable, sacrificing leader that he was.

Chris could remembers speaking with various scientists and doctors, colleagues and concerned others. It was suggested that, once it was clear he and Piers were entering a relationship, he treat his... 'partner' – and there had been a pause when the doctor had begun – as if he had contracted an STD. While unkind, she had reasoned that it was possible for Chris to become infected through swapping any sort of bodily fluids with Piers.

A scientist, less kind and more idiotic, told Chris altogether to abandon the relationship. Piers could mutate in the middle of the night. His mind could deteriorate at a moment's notice. He could lose control of himself. An argument could lead to a surge of bio-electric energy, ending Chris's life without preamble. A bad day could result in Piers snapping and tearing Chris to shreds. The possibilities were endless. As was the danger.

Chris made it a point to kiss his 'partner' thoroughly and deeply in front of the doctor and had outright broken the scientist's nose.

He finally had Piers back and they were all telling him to let go? To not take this chance? Sure, when Chris had first seen Piers again, held in the observation room, it hadn't occurred to him just how much they would have, just what they would become, but Chris hadn't had a single plan to not be involved with whatever Piers was going to do and what he was going to go through.

Chris was going to be with Piers just like Piers had been with him. Becoming what they would become, one unit, two people, shared hearts, that was all just a surprise bonus. He liked to think it was what they were due for.

:::::::

Chris knew how to cook. Some things, anyway. And what he didn't know how to cook, he could follow a recipe for. 

So he was making Garlic Lime Chicken – was in the middle of it anyway, he'd just have to put it in the fridge to marinate and was planning to spend the next two hours wondering why the Hell he was bothering – when he suddenly had guests.

He knew the moment he heard glass shatter that these were the kind of guests that came in through the windows. Nasty bastards. That was when Chris realized something, something so embarrassing that he nearly cracked his skull against the kitchen island just in the vain hope that he could escape it somehow.

He was a housewife. It was all clear to him now, now that he had had the thought that he was going to be the one to have to vacuum the shards out of the living room carpet. And he'd most likely have to apply carpet cleaner if anyone's shoes were muddy.

He played with the idea of just letting the mud part slide, letting his and Piers' neat little home get a bit dirty. They were men, weren't they supposed to be dirty? Not that Chris could ever remember a day where he had been. Living with Claire had given him some decency and the Air Force had taught him order. Thinking back, he wondered if Piers had been a messy sort of guy before... Well, _before_. That would have to do.

He heard a gun cock right up against his head. Calmly, he sipped his coffee, counting in his head the number of footsteps he could hear as his guests moved into position. Three? No, five. One going towards the back door, one to the front, two covering the archway between the living room and kitchen, and the fifth who was holding the gun.

“Chris Redfield!” cried a deep, yet feminine voice. It was close, so he guessed it was the one threatening to blow his head off.

He thought about not answering for a minute. Then the gun's barrel dug into his scalp. Might as well save himself the headache. “That's me.”

“You're that degeneration's whore,” came her voice, low and pleased and a little disgusted.

He opened his mouth to object – couldn't really find anything to object to. He and Piers had had that one night where they'd experimented with dirty talk and Chris wouldn't mind repeating it a time or a dozen. Instead, he said, “Guilty,” and took another sip of coffee.

She snarled. It was an ugly sound, Chris didn't like how wet it sounded, like she was spitting while she was doing it. Piers had a nice snarl. Beastly. Chris beat down a shudder at the memory. “Anyone going to tell me what this party's about?” he asked. “It's only right, seeing as how you've made a mess of my living room.” He turned his head enough to see her footwear. 

Clumps of dirt and grass were still stuck to them. Well, fuck. He didn't want to see what they had done to the carpet.

She snarled again and clubbed the gun to the side of his head. It wasn't a vicious hit – his world only spun around for a second – but he got the message.

He stared obediently into his coffee. 

“We do not agree with your choice of lover,” she hissed.

“That's too bad,” Chris said, all dry sarcasm and fake sympathy. 

The gun came back around, harder this time, and he fell sideways off his stool and hit the tiled floor elbow-first. That was going to hurt for a little while.

“Where is all of your training now, _Captain Redfield_?”

He barely held back a flinch at the title. He hadn't been Captain Redfield in nearly three years. He didn't want to have that kind of control over others lives anymore. Piers was captain now. Piers was a damn good captain. 

“I haven't felt up to using it lately,” he answered honestly, not bothering to get up. If he was honest with himself, he didn't feel like fighting back. He was retired. Too tired to keep fighting. Though he really should put up an effort. He'd hate to see Piers' expression if he ever heard about this.

With that in mind, he forced himself into a sitting position. “I'm retired,” he felt he should mention.

“You'll soon be dead,” was her retort, full of hatred. He saw her lift the gun up above her head, about to swing it right at his temple, and he almost asked why she didn't just kill him outright instead of knocking him out. Almost, but he didn't want to waste his time like she seemed wanting to do.

He swept a leg out, bringing her down to the ground. Leg up, down right on her throat, she wheezed and clawed at her neck but she was going to die of asphyxiation no matter how she fought it. The two in the archway aimed their guns and he changed his mind, grabbing her by her shoulders and putting her in front of him.

She was going to die of blood loss and internal injury before she suffocated. That might actually be a better way to go.

Maybe.

Later that night when Piers walked through the front door, Chris was busy vacuuming the dirt out of the carpet. The blood stains had taken hours as it was.

Halfway across the room, Piers hissed and hopped around on one foot.

“Damn,” Chris muttered, exhausted. He wasn't as young as he used to be. “Did I miss a piece?”

Balancing against a chair, Piers pulled a shard out of the sole of his foot. He looked from it to Chris to the glassless window and then at the condemning brown footprint in the blue carpet.

“What kind of day did you have?” Piers asked him, low and dangerous. The faded-out scars writhed to the surface and his milky eye gleamed.

Chris felt oddly protected. Almost coveted. It wasn't really comforting. Kind of annoying, actually. Then he remembered that Piers was captain. It was his place to protect his men.

To protect Chris.

He was humbled by that logic.

“Most likely wasn't as exciting as yours,” he answered. “Just had some guests over.”

He put the vacuum away in the storage closet. Paused. Then cursed.

Piers was there instantly, hand on his gun, wary eyes taking in everything as if he expected the enemy to drop out of the ceiling or morph from the dustpan and mop.

“What is it?”

Chris let his face fall into one hand, rubbing his temples. “I forgot about dinner.”

“... The chicken?”

“Yeah. I was marinating it and then things got a little... out of control. Damn it, now I don't feel like cooking it anymore.”

Piers was staring at a large red stain on Chris's shirt. “You know what. I'll finish dinner.”

His head shot up. With far too much hope in his voice, he asked, “Really?”

“Really.”

Piers ended up with an armful of him, kisses on his lips, one after the other. “God – I – fucking – love – you.” He finished with a much longer, much deeper greeting.

Piers' hands ended up underneath his shirt and down his pants and then dinner was the last thing on his mind.

That was fine. He wasn't even sure if he had been hungry to begin with.

:::::::

Piers was home when he shouldn't have been. That happened sometimes. Piers, methodical, _intense_. He usually got the job, whatever the job was, done early. It gave him more time to himself. To training. To practicing self-control. To practicing control over Chris.

That was fine. That was even sexy.

But he got home two hours early on a Tuesday afternoon and that wasn't a good thing, Chris guessed. Good sort of guests this time, luckily. The kind that came through the front door after knocking politely, even if they hadn't technically waited for Chris to let them in.

Three total. Two women, one man, all with the same set expression. Stormy. 

Chris would rather take on the bad sort of guests.

“We would like to talk to you about your domestic partner, Piers Nivans.”

They didn't beat around the bush, anyway. He shrugged and sat down in the deep blue armchair across from them, both women primly on the worn and torn, once-red loveseat and the man on the beige chair across from him. He and Piers really should look into refurnishing.

He put a considerable amount of mind power towards deciding what color scheme they should go with while his guests waited impatiently for... something.

Took him a moment, but he realized they were waiting for him to react. Something more impressive than just a shrug, supposedly. He debated throwing a tantrum, explode on them and demand to know who the fuck they thought they were for coming in and bringing up Piers.

Instead, he said, “Okay,” and threw the ball back in their court.

Looking visibly deflated, the man picked up the conversation. “We have a few questions for you, Mr. Redfield. We are concerned about how this relationship might be infectious to you. We understand that you do not use protection when relating intimately with your partner?” It sounded rhetorical.

One of the women spoke up. “We would like to take a blood sample. Test to see if there is anything wrong.” 

So it had definitely been rhetorical.

Chris studied them. “Who're you guys again?”

Because they hadn't really introduced themselves, had they?

The second woman opened her mouth to reply, head held high and shoulders thrown uncomfortably far back – 

She might have said something in the next two seconds but Chris wouldn't have heard a single thing. He focused entirely on the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs, through the den, and stopping at the archway to the living room.

He didn't have to turn around to see Piers' closed off expression as his voice snapped out like a whip, “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

The woman stopped. The tension level went up by about two notches. Chris watched the color drain from her face.

“Mr. Nivans!” cried the other woman. 

“Captain Nivans!” mimicked the man.

It was kind of like surround sound. Or a puppet show.

“Mr. Nivans, we are concerned about your domestic partner's –”

“Fiance,” Piers corrected coldly.

Which kind of startled Chris because, up until that moment, he hadn't known they were engaged. He turned his head to study his partner. The look in his eyes said they would talk about it later, that he loved him, that he wanted him. 

_I'm taking over the situation, crowd control, fuck, wanna bend you over –_

Chris shuddered and let himself relax into the armchair. Into Piers' capable hands.

“W-well,” she sputtered, “congratulations are in order, I assume. We are concerned about your _fiance's_ health.”

Piers cut another quick look his way, seeking confirmation.

Almost casually, he answered the unspoken question. “They think you're infecting me.” Then he stood up, patted out his jeans, and went to go make coffee.

A humid, static silence settled behind him. He could almost hear the crackle of energy, felt it travel along his skin, inside of him. Confused arousal.

“I'll be in here while you wrap things up,” he called over his shoulder. Then he looked back, just to see Piers' face. The sculpted lines of his cool displeasure, the writhing scars, the duet of light and dark. Fucking beautiful. 

Piers scowled at their guests, making them squirm. “I won't be long.”

:::::::

It occurred to Chris, sometime later that night with an icepack over his lower back, Piers' fingers tracing up and down the dip of his spine and pressing small, adoring kisses over the nape of his neck and his shoulder blades, that he was engaged to this guy.

“I don't have a ring,” he mumbled, halfway asleep and boneless with contentment. “Neither do you.”

Piers paused. “I was going to do the whole 'down-on-one-knee' thing tomorrow morning. I thought you'd appreciate it over coffee and bagels. But then there was that interference and hearing them say 'domestic partner'... It set me off.”

“Huh,” was his intelligent reply. “Wouldn't mind if you did the whole 'down-on-one-knee' thing over coffee and bagels tomorrow anyway.”

That actually sounded perfect to him.

Thoughtfully, he added, “Maybe after that, we can go look for new furniture.”

“New furniture?”

“Just go with me on this.”

He chuckled. It was a nice sound, sliding through Chris and electrifying his nerves. “Alright. We'll celebrate by looking for new furniture.”

“Mmm... Good. Hey, did they ever tell you who they were?”

The happy atmosphere died a quick, painful death. “Does it matter?”

Chris considered Piers' tone of voice, low and dangerous, glacial. He shook his head in the cradle of his folded arms. “Not really.”

Without another word, Piers settled against his side, half of his upper body over Chris as if he was going to protect him even in sleep. Chris had learned to accept it. Wasn't even sure if he could sleep if he didn't feel Piers' familiar weight on top of him.

“Hey, Captain.”

Piers growled pleasantly against the shell of his ear. “Yes, soldier?”

He turned his head and stole a kiss, a second, a third. Piers followed him on the fourth and their lips held on, chaste but no less intimate. 

Chris sighed, “Love you,” and laid his head back down.

Piers rubbed up and down the arm he wasn't lying on, mouth on his neck, sucking, leaving his mark. “Love you too. Love you so much.”

“You'd have to, shit I put you through.”

“I'd have to,” Piers agreed, eyes fierce. “For the shit you go through for me.”

“Huh. Must be why we're getting married.”

He was laughed at, which was incredible. Piers didn't laugh often enough these days.

“Must be,” he parroted. “It might also have something to do with your sexy ass.”


End file.
